POEMS by Jack Trimper
p

Poetry:
Roads, Wooden Objects and Sunsets

©1985 outta’ print

And in beginnin’

Each breath inward
Each breath outward
Lungs exchangin’ particles within the field.

And smokin’
In sweatin’
Mouthfuls of tobacco
in sweat circles carryin’
And pointin’ pipe to/in the four
Touchin’ those in close
physically permeatin’ proximity
Within the womb of lodge upon earth
Surrounding a, too, emittin’ pit
Glowin’ globes of harder earth
Within perceptible waves of heated particle
Inhalin’ particles of sweetgrass / sage
Prayin’ intonin’ secretin’ sweatin’ warmin’

Each breath inward
Each breath outward
Lungs exchangin’ particles within the field.

And in elsewhere
And deservin’ mention:
Seein’ eyes and form
Feelin’
Tastin’ lips suckin’
Feelin’
Hearin’ ayes and hum
Feelin’
Smellin’ sips nosin’
More feelin’.
All up so close-in
Immediate transferrin’
Auras overlappin’
Me with thee become we.
Sexin’
And comin’ cryin’
Each breath inward
Each breath outward
Mouthin’exchangin’ particles within the field.
And endin’
And in beginnin’...

Jack Trimper

 

Go-wa-na-Ga-gwe-dake-neh
Bathin’ in Bath

Wonder what beneath green’d
And planes of concret’d
Where fissures spout
And sands do whirl about
Is below the terraced row
And channeled flow?

Where tribal peace
Was discussed in ease
Amidst winter snow
They came, disrobed
Leaving weapons
Outside this truce circle

The water’s free
Come drink and see.

This patina of the present
Mere translucent
Still sacred ground of those who left
Where music sounds for time as yet.

The water’s free
Come drink and see.

Others came and said,
“This here’s where we want.
You go bathe someplace else
For here our plats say
‘Sell the land’
And come no longer here anon
To council amidst the steaming sands.”

And today this history must resolve’d
The passing of the ancient bands.
Divided, sold and resold again
But where are those who hither once?

And yet see
The water’s free.

The ladies got their own of six springs
A father, the sign says, a private bath.
No sign, no light reveals to where
The elders they were moved from here to
No longer able to cure and heal
Dance and sing the ancestor songs.

And now
The water’s free
Come drink and see.
The music sounds
And commerce surrounds this motherwarmth
Where once the topics of the day
Discussed the pale one’s come and stay.

So when
Will once again we
Offer access to the distant remnant
Of people’s displaced?

Some say the dead
Must go away
To this place or that
And sometimes in between
To other realms, do tell…
And yet there’s those
Who say they stay
Where life’s unburdening moment came.
And if so, then some among we come.
They see as we
The water’s free
And children play
While elders still
Confront the day.

Oh welcome back
Let us welcome back
To stand the lodge
Fire rocks, raise steam
And repeat the words
Scatter meal
Gather blessings
Heal and offer peace.

Jack Trimper

 

My Mosquitos

Gathering: our land, our kitchens, our time, our gathering.
Here on site: these are my mosquitos.
My mosquitos gathered over three days
forming a relentless cloud lingering in proximity.
Hovering in my face
Within my heat
My mosquitos.
On my body
My mosquitos.
Under wraps
Mummified in bag.
Breathing and
Seeing through tunnel
As incessant needles
Strive to pierce
Anywhere soft to suck
And satisfy and propagate
With the food I am.
Blood as occasional offering
Monsoon rain as expected challenge
Clear days only and
My mosquitos: my lesson.
Curses and profanities metamorph
into the patience of a strong directed breath
to shuttle and shoo my mosquitos out and away.
P-Whew, p-whew, p-whew.
Puffing a stream of hot breath to push away
… and guide back again.
The mosquitos in my mind entering returning seeking
Sucking my energy can be diverted with breath.
E-bodied P-whew.

JTrimper ‘09

 

Valentine
Ode

after Pablo Neruda

I see
the form
a dancer suit
trim like a prow
slicing the foam
through currents
of balance
and focus.
A tawny top
tousled into
where a grasp guides
movements of
another kind.

I feel the texture
firm yet softly
molded into
crepe sculpture.

I taste
the essence
a lobe
a cheek
alip, aleg, aloin
a flavor of
fine red.

I smell
the divine
there
and where
heaven becomes
olfactory candy.

I hear
the voice
the sigh
the groan
the laugh
and
the release.

I sense
the moreso
everso.

Jack Trimper